Doctor Miranda was right about Andrew. By the time he had finished moving his party and their luggage from the stifling railroad shed to the cool courtyard of Honda’s principal inn, the schoolmaster had been beaten in his last feeble fight for liberty and had become the victim to an unlimited amount of quininizing. No need now to force his eyelids apart to reveal the telltale yellow within. Even a tyro in such matters could see from his jaundiced appearance, his quick breathing, his general inertia, that he was in the first stages of an attack of fever. This being beyond dispute, the little doctor dropped his fighting humor for one of bustling activity, beneath which there lurked a rough sort of tenderness for his unhappy patient. A bed, a pitcher of “lemon squash,” and a box of the famous “pildoras,” were quickly provided by dint of much storming at the indolent hotel servants and angry prodding of the astonished proprietor. When all his arrangements were perfected, Andrew completely in his power and stuffed as full as might be with quinine, the triumphant Miranda rejoined his friends, his rubicund features beaming with satisfaction.

“No! No! my lady,” he answered Una’s anxious inquiries, “there is no danger. That leetle fellow has my pills and plenty of squash. He cannot die. Soon he will be well. You will see. I am doctor to him.”

His assurances had their effect, although they failed to convince the despondent Mrs. Quayle, who shook her head dolefully, rocking herself back and forth in her chair and bewailing the sad fate that was awaiting “poor dear Mr. Parmelee in this desolate country.” At all of which the irascible doctor scowled ominously, taking her complaint as a reflection on his medical skill. Leighton, however, faced the situation in a matter of fact way, while David set about the necessary preparations for his journey to Bogota. An excellent opportunity offered that very day to join General Herran’s party in the trip over the mountains.

A train of twenty mules and burros was needed for the expedition, and to procure these and load them with the necessary baggage, called for no small amount of work and skillful management. The stone courtyard of the inn rang with the shouts of burro drivers, the quarrels of peons intent on selling their wares to travelers at the best prices, and the threats and commands of General Herran and his officers. Above this din, apparently necessary on such occasions, one could hear the strident voice of Doctor Miranda, browbeating some luckless vendor of merchandise, or ridiculing the exertions of those who would bestow a maximum of baggage on a minimum of burro. In spite of the confusion, however, everything moved along in as orderly and expeditious a manner as is possible with these ancient methods of travel. By midday the last load was adjusted, the twenty animals forming the cavalcade stood strapped and ready for the start.

Hot, stifling was the air in the courtyard; the cobbled pavement of the street outside fairly baked beneath the relentless sun. Most of the shops and tiendas were closed for the noon siesta, and only a few listless stragglers ventured beyond the cool white portals of the houses. It was not a happy hour in which to commence a difficult journey; but General Herran, marvelously energetic for once, had planned to cover a certain distance before nightfall. So, without more ado, the “bestias” were marshaled, single file, and driven out, with much shouting and laying on of goads, into the street, where they stood patiently waiting for the eight travelers whom they were to carry to Bogota.

“We are off at last!” announced David, entering the salon where Leighton, Una, Mrs. Quayle and Miranda awaited the caravan’s departure. “In less than a week you’ll hear from me. By that time, I hope, you’ll be ready for Bogota.”

“I can never go on one of those vicious animals,” sighed Mrs. Quayle, her bejeweled fingers nervously clutching the arms of the chair.

“Vicious!” exclaimed David. “They are harmless as kittens.”

As if in denial of the comparison, one of the burros standing near the doorway stiffened out his forefeet and brayed with all the vehemence of which burro lungs are capable. He was followed by his comrades in misery—a full chorus of brays from which no discordant note was missing. Had it been the traditional bellowing of a herd of bulls—it was noisy enough for that—the timid lady could not have been more alarmed, nor the doctor more delighted.

“Bravo!” he shouted. “They want you, my Senora. They wait for you.”

“Good-bye!” said David, clasping Una’s hand.

“Good-bye!” she said, almost inaudibly.

“Doctor, look out for them,” he called to Miranda.

“Be sure! Be sure!” was the response, a glint of sympathy lighting his eyes. “Have a care to you. I have that leetle fellow in bed. He is full of lemona squash and my pills. Soon his calentura is kill.”

“Well, don’t kill him too!”

“Ah, canaille!”

The members of General Herran’s party had already mounted and were slowly disappearing down the bend of the street, pack-mules and burros in the lead. The general himself, on a pinched-up, piebald horse that, like Hamlet’s cloud, bore a comical resemblance to a camel, lingered behind for his guest. David’s bay, lacking in zoological vagaries, pranced spiritedly to begone as soon as it felt its rider in the saddle.

“That is one good animal,” commented Miranda.

“The other needs your pills,” remarked Leighton solemnly.

With a laugh and a hearty “adios!” the two horsemen saluted the group in the doorway and galloped off after their companions. Una watched, motionless, long after David was out of sight. She had done her best to prevent his going, but all her efforts had been useless. Nor could she explain, even to herself, why it was that she so dreaded his leaving their party to travel alone with Herran. There was nothing logical in the feeling, of course, and she had to confess that for once she was influenced by an utterly unreasonable fear, a sort of superstition.

The journey from Honda to Bogota is a scramble over precipitous trails worn into the living rock by centuries of travel, through wastes of traffic-beaten mire, along glades of dew-soaked herbage that gleam refreshingly under cloudless skies in a wilderness of impenetrable forest. No other city of like size and importance has so rude and picturesque an approach, nor are there many that keep their commerce along ways and by methods so unmodern. The stranger, ignorant of the simplicities of South American life, whether in town or country, is bewildered by the oddities and hardships in a trip of this kind. But David had traveled more than once over the Bogota trail, and for him it had lost its novelty, especially as his sole aim on the present occasion was to reach his destination as quickly as possible. Herran had a similar feeling; hence, as the day was not unpleasantly warm, once they had passed beyond the lowlands of Honda both men urged their horses on to top speed. In a short time they had left the rest of the party far behind them, and broke into a race over the rough mountain trail. Tiring of this, they dropped back to a more sober gait, letting their horses choose their own way for a time.

“I telegraphed from Honda that we were coming,” said Herran in Spanish. “They are looking for us now in Bogota.”

“Did you say that I was with you?” asked David.

“Surely. As an officer it is my duty to give complete information,” was the somewhat pompous reply. “I gave the names of all who are in your party and told why they stayed in Honda.”

“Why so much detail about us? My friends and I are not connected with the military movements of the country.”

“That may be true, Senor. But you travel with me and—I am ignorant of your business, you know.”

“We travel partly for pleasure, partly—I am interested in a Guatavita mining venture.”

“So! Will they know that when they see your name in the Bogota papers?”

“My friend that I am going to visit will know, of course. I wrote to him that I was coming. Why do you ask?”

“Ah! Just now, it may be, my countrymen will not like American mining ventures—or Americans.”

“Then, Americans are in danger?”

“How can I say, Senor?” he answered with a shrug. “I have lost Panama, they say. I, too, have enemies. Perhaps I am in danger. But you have a friend in Bogota? He is—?”

“An American; Raoul Arthur.”

“I have heard of him.”

“He is well liked here.”

“That is good,” commented Herran drily.

For the first time since he had been in Colombia David felt uneasy as to the possible outcome of his trip. His friends, in reach of the river steamers, could leave the country at the first sign of real danger. But every mile placed between himself and the Magdalena lessened his chances for escape—and that he might need to get out of Colombia in a hurry was evident from Herran’s attitude, his reserve, his ambiguous answers to David’s questions. All this was not exactly through a lack of friendliness on the general’s part. David knew Herran fairly well, and did not doubt his loyalty. He also knew that he was under suspicion on account of the Panama affair, and for this reason would have to be extremely wary in extending protection to an American seeking to enrich himself in Colombia. Politically, the man who lost Panama could not afford to let his name be further compromised.

General Herran, however, was not one to keep up an attitude of restraint for long. The air was bracing, the mountain trail was in excellent condition, the horses were fresh and responded readily to whip and bridle. Under these favoring influences the two travelers soon became sociable enough, and even joked over some of the sinister circumstances attending their journey.

“We are a long way from Panama, Senor—and Miranda’s pills!” exclaimed Herran.

“Heaven help the schoolmaster!” laughed David.

“Ah, poor fellow! To be at the doctor’s mercy! But he is not a bad doctor. Only nine out of every ten of his victims die, they say. Perhaps this schoolmaster—— Have you your pistol, Senor?” he broke off suddenly.

“My pistol, General?”

“For a salute to Panama and our friends,” explained the other. “You do not know the custom of the road to Bogota in times of revolution—that is, at all times. And you have no pistol,” he added with a sigh. “But this will do for both of us.”

Reining in his horse at a shaded bend in the trail, General Herran, unconsciously following the Fat Knight’s memorable exploit on Shrewsbury Battlefield, took from his hip pocket a huge case bottle and handed it to David.

“Fire the first shot, my friend, and I will come after with a long one for your Guatavita mine.”

In the act of carrying out this pleasant suggestion, the attention of David and Herran was suddenly caught by a babel of voices—shouts of command, the tramp of many feet—coming from the Bogota end of the trail. Interruptions of this kind are more serious than they may seem to those unfamiliar with Colombian mountain travel. So rough and narrow is the road to Bogota, with sometimes a precipice on one hand and a sheer wall of rock on the other, that the problem of two parties passing each other is not always an easy one. Although this is the chief thoroughfare between the national capital and the Magdalena, it remains quite as primitive and unadapted to modern needs as in the days of the Indians. To widen and pave it proved more of a task in road-building than the Spanish conquerors cared to undertake; and their successors in the government of the country have, until now, attempted little in the way of improvement. Thus, travelers from the lowlands over this Indian trail frequently have to fight for a passage through a descending rabble of men and burros, or else allow themselves to be crowded off into a tangle of underbrush on one side or thrown down a steep cliff on the other.

As it happened, the spot chosen by General Herran and David for their friendly salute was a particularly awkward one in an encounter with a lot of travelers coming from the opposite direction. In front of them the trail rose abruptly in a long zigzag of rocks and gullies, down which the caravan from Bogota, the noise of whose approach grew rapidly more distinct, was bound to descend upon them. Their only chance to escape was either through a morass, covered with a dense forest growth, or else up a hazardous mountain side, strewn with boulders and loose stones. Of course, they might retrace their steps until they found a more open space; but this seemed too much like retreating from an enemy and did not recommend itself to either of the horsemen.

“It sounds like a regiment of soldiers,” said David, taking another long draught from the Falstaffian “pistol” and returning it to Herran.

“Perhaps,” replied the General, indifferent to outside matters until he had finished his part of the prescribed ceremony. “And here we are,” he added, with a sigh of contentment, “saluting Panama and an American company, with an army of volunteers, bent on licking the Yankees, coming down upon us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Caramba! In Honda they said these volunteers started from Bogota three days ago. They are due here now.”

“We must meet them,” said David, upon whom the General’s “pistol” had not failed to score.

“Wait a moment! As Miranda would say, these peons are canaille and—there is no room for a meeting.”

Both men laughed. Nevertheless, in spite of the humor of the situation, it had more than the usual peril incident to travel on the Bogota trail to be comfortable.

“Two men against a regiment!” chuckled Herran.

“But they are not after us,” argued David.

“They are after the Yankees—and you are a Yankee. Well, Senor, what shall we do?”

“You are in command, Senor General.”

“Caramba! Then, let us march! We can’t jump down those rocks, the swamp is even worse—and we won’t retreat before a lot of peons. Forward, Senor! We can at least use pistols if we need to!”

With which comforting assurance Herran handed one of his case bottles to David. This the latter retained, first joining his comrade in a final “salute,” declaring all the while that this kind of exercise had been unknown to him for years—a statement received by General Herran with the skepticism it deserved. The two horses were then brought into line and, with touch of whip and spur, commenced a scramble up the trail, at the top of which the front ranks of the peons were just visible.

As Herran had predicted, the travelers with whom they had to contest the right of way belonged to one of the volunteer regiments of Bogota peons bound for the Isthmus. At their head rode Pedro, “El Rey,” more dilapidated as to costume but more joyous of mood than on that memorable morning when he led his forces down the Calle de Las Montanas to be reviewed by the President of the Republic. He had parted with his blacking box and in place of it, hanging from his neck, was a rusty old sword that clanked dismally on the scarred and battered ribs of the solemn burro upon which he was mounted. Burros, as a rule, are patient animals, taking whatever comes, whether insult, ridicule, or cajolery, with unruffled temper, and this particular specimen of the long-suffering race evinced supreme indifference to the military honors that sat so weightily upon him. Pedro, however, was not unmindful of the distinctions he had won. Immediately behind him, borne by two of his trustiest lieutenants, floated the flag of the republic, its red and yellow folds somewhat faded and dusty from the three days’ march, and flapping now in anything but defiant fashion. But it formed a good background to the enthusiasm of leadership that marked the bearing and illuminated the grimy features of Bogota’s ex-bootblack and, doubtless, helped keep up the courage and patriotism of his followers. The latter marched, for the most part, on foot and in such straggling lines as best suited them. When it first set out from Bogota the regiment had kept some sort of military order, but this had long since been abandoned, and the host of men and boys, some thousand in number, jostled each other and choked up the narrow trail in glorious confusion.

Having reached the top of the hill overlooking the sheltered ledge chosen by David and Herran for their impromptu celebration, the volunteers kept right on. Led by Pedro and his two banner-bearers, they plunged down the steep, winding trail, crowding upon each other, shouting and laughing, filling the narrow space with most unmilitary disorder. In the meantime the two horsemen tried their best to reach a point as near as possible to the top of the trail before the volunteers began the descent. In this they failed, and the inevitable collision with the front ranks of the peons took place half way up the hillside. Here they met Pedro and his immediate followers, behind whom pressed, with increasing energy, the whole rabble of peons. But the dejected burro, whose duty it was to carry the leader of these ragged cohorts to victory, refused to be hurried by those behind him. The more he was urged the greater was his deliberation in picking his way among the treacherous stones covering the trail. Thumps and blows failed to arouse his enthusiasm, and with every fresh difficulty presented by rock or sudden dip in the pathway, he stopped to take a careful survey of the surrounding obstacles before proceeding with his journey. Memories of past disaster had taught him the value of caution that a younger, less experienced burro might have failed to observe. But the horses of David and Herran, although ancient enough, were not afflicted with recollections of former mishaps, and so plunged into the ranks of the peons without regard for consequences.

“Hug the side of the road,” cautioned Herran in a low voice. “I’ll take the middle and try to distract the attention of these people from you.”

“Salute, Senor!” cried Pedro, attempting as courteous a greeting as his burro would allow. “What news from Panama?”

Not to be outdone in courtesy, Herran pulled back his horse from the folds of the flag into which he was patriotically heading, and offered his “pistol” to “El Rey.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Pedro, his eyes fairly snapping with astonishment; “it is General Herran! Bueno, Senor General, we go to bring Panama back to Colombia.”

“That is well,” replied the other, diplomatically ignoring the implied reproach; “with such brave men you will surely succeed, Senor Capitan.”

“And the Yankees?” queried Pedro, smacking his lips after a long draught from the General’s bottle.

“Doubtless you will find them in Panama.”

The news that this was General Herran, the man whom Panama had made famous, spread like wildfire among the volunteers, who crowded together excitedly, bent on hearing the latest bulletin from the land they were pledged to recapture. Shouts of amazement, indignation, derision echoed along the trail—expressions of hostility that might have appalled one less cool than Herran. But he pretended not to notice these demonstrations, and devoted himself to Pedro, who, he perceived, was moved by his flattery.

“It’s a bad business, Senor Capitan,” he assured him confidentially. “But the country is safe with such brave volunteers to defend it.”

“And you, Senor General, you fight with us?”

“It will be an honor,” graciously replied the hero of Panama. “But first I must see His Excellency, the President, in Bogota. I will tell him how you are hurrying to the rescue of the Isthmus.”

“Where are your soldiers?”

“Some of them you will meet on the way to Honda.”

“An officer was with you just now. Where is he?”

In the throng of volunteers surrounding them it was impossible to distinguish David, who had doubtless seized the opportunity created by the sudden recognition of Herran to force his way up the side of the trail as the General had suggested.

“Caramba!” exclaimed Herran. “He has gone on ahead. He knows the President awaits us and the despatches of great importance to the republic that we bring him. I must hurry. Pardon, Senor Capitan, if I am forced to leave you so quickly. Perhaps we meet soon again in Panama.”

With a fine show of deference, Herran saluted the King of the Bootblacks, whose eyes sparkled proudly at this recognition of his rank from a brother officer, and who signified his appreciation of the tribute by a wave of the hand to his followers and a command to them not to delay the General.

“Senores!” he shouted, “make way for the great Senor General! He comes for the Republic. After he has seen Don Jose, he will go with us to bring back Panama.”

The order was given with all the flourish that had won renown for Pedro as a polisher of boots and was received by the volunteers with their wonted cheerfulness and enthusiasm. Unfortunately, the burro who had the honor of carrying “El Rey” was so unappreciative of his rider’s eloquence that he allowed himself to be jostled into too close proximity with the bearers of the flag. He then became so hopelessly entangled in his country’s colors that, uttering a dismal bray, he was tumbled headlong down the slippery hill, dragging the amazed and protesting Pedro with him.

Profiting by this accident, General Herran spurred his own horse through the ranks of the volunteers, gaining at last, after much energetic pushing and shoving, the top of the hill. Here he paused to look back, with an inward chuckle, at the excited throng of men and boys from whom he had escaped, and to pick up again his fellow traveler, David. But David was nowhere to be seen. Herran expected to find him on the level space at the top of the hill; that he was not there filled him with anxiety. Reasoning, however, that if the volunteers had attacked David he would have heard of it, and convinced that the American was not with the mob he had just left, he set spurs to his horse, expecting to find him further on. After all, he argued, it was natural that a Yankee, traveling alone, should put as great a distance as possible between himself and these volunteers. But, whatever the explanation, David was not to be found. There were no cross trails from the main Bogota road into which he might have blundered, and his disappearance, therefore, became more of a puzzle as Herran traveled mile after mile, at the best speed of which his horse was capable, without trace of him.

In a way General Herran felt responsible for the safety of the man with whom he had been traveling, the more so that this man was a foreigner, belonging to a nation whose citizens were not welcome just then in Colombia. Had David been other than an American, Herran would have taken his disappearance, puzzling though it was, with the cheerful indifference peculiar to him. But the fact that he was an American, alone in a hostile country, appealed to a chivalrous strain in his nature, urging him to do the best he could for his rescue. Unfortunately, the solving of the simplest of problems was not in the General’s line, and he painfully turned the matter over and over without result, one way or the other. David, he told himself, had forced his way through the ranks of the volunteers without attracting attention. He felt sure of this because he had watched his ascent of the trail for a good part of the way. Hence, he could not be with the volunteers now. Only a few of the latter were mounted, and these marched in the front ranks where they had been carefully noted by Herran. If David had remained in the rear ranks of the regiment, voluntarily or as a captive, his horse would have made him conspicuous. Of course, during the commotion following the accident to Pedro and his burro almost anything might have happened; David might have been captured, bound and gagged, his horse taken away and he himself hidden by the peons who held him prisoner in the hope of future ransom. But this was all too bewildering, too complex for Herran seriously to consider. Instead, he convinced himself that David had escaped the volunteers, that he was no longer behind him on the trail, that he must therefore be in front, and that to find him there was only one thing to do—push forward as fast as possible.

Acting on this, General Herran rode without stopping until nightfall, reaching just after dusk—dusk comes swiftly enough in the tropics—one of the primitive little hostelries kept for the accommodation of travelers to and from Bogota. Here, as is usual in such places, there was a large number of guests intending to spend the night. This posada, or inn, was a one-storied, rambling affair consisting of three rooms and a verandah sheltered by the overhanging eaves of a thatched roof. All the rooms were filled with people, most of them lying on mats spread on the floor; the verandah was similarly occupied. In the dim light from smoky lanterns it was difficult to tell who these people were. Herran, confident that David was among them, appealed to the proprietor, a stolid looking peon, for information.

“You have a Yankee here, Senor?”

“No, Senor.”

“A Yankee came to-day from Honda?”

“No, Senor.”

“He was riding alone to Bogota?”

“No, Senor.”

“A young man on a bay horse?”

“No, Senor.”

“Is there a foreigner here?”

“No, Senor.”

“A foreigner passed here to-day on a bay horse?”

“No, Senor.”

“Caramba, hombre! Have you ever seen a foreigner here?”

“No—yes, Senor.”

“To-day?”

“No, Senor.”

Exasperated by what he considered the stupidity of the landlord, Herran addressed, in a loud voice, the various guests who were preparing to pass the night on such improvised beds as they could get for themselves.

“Senores, I am looking for a young man, a foreigner, a Yankee, who is riding to Bogota on a bay horse. He must be here. Have you seen him?”

There was a confused murmur. A number of the men sat up on their mats and repeated energetically the landlord’s negative. Others grumblingly denounced all Yankees as robbers and disturbers of the country’s peace. One young man, dressed in the uniform of an army officer, recognizing Herran’s rank, politely offered to share his mat with him, suggesting, at the same time, that he could pursue his search to much better advantage in the morning. As further inquiries brought out nothing new, Herran accepted this officer’s hospitality, wearily resigning himself to the conclusion that David had been mysteriously spirited away, and was about to be shot by a lot of insane peons, led on by the ridiculous Pedro. So it seemed to him as he sank into a nightmare-ridden sleep.

Morning failed to bring the expected solution of the General’s difficulties. In the bedlam created by burros, horses, travelers—all trying to make their departure from the inn at the same early hour, and all finding their plans delayed by some fault in harness, mislaying of baggage, or other inconvenience peculiar to a four-footed conveyance—there was no sign of the missing David. A number of native merchants on their way from Bogota to the coast, who had lodged at the inn during the night, recognized Herran, and although their greetings were cordial, the oldtime friendliness was tempered by the uncertainty with which the average Colombian viewed this unfortunate officer’s part in the so-called Panama revolution. As news of his presence spread among the departing guests, General Herran felt the restraint as well as the disagreeable curiosity with which he was regarded. This made his search for David more difficult. Under the circumstances it was not easy to explain why he, of all men, was traveling with an American; hence, he was forced to speak with more reserve than he would have liked of the young man’s disappearance.

As a result of the little that he learned, he was convinced that David had neither reached nor passed the inn on the way to Bogota. There remained two alternatives. Had his companion been carried along by the volunteers? Or, had he, by mistake, of course, taken a side trail from the main road and thus lost himself in the labyrinth of mountains and forests through which they were traveling? No one knew of such a side trail. As for the other possibility, there was nothing to do but await the coming of his own party of men and officers whom Herran and David had left shortly after their departure from Honda, and who must have met, in their turn, the volunteers somewhere on the road. In the meantime, nothing could be gained from the landlord of the inn, whose intelligence was at an even lower ebb in the morning than on the preceding evening. This good-natured but fatuous boniface found it difficult to sustain a conversation on the most ordinary topics; and as a result of his intellectual labors with him, the sociable Herran was nearing the extremity of misery when his own party arrived, several hours after the last traveler had left the inn.

“Ah, yes, Senor General!” groaned Colonel Rodriguez, the bustling little officer in charge of the men during Herran’s absence; “we met the volunteers. They wanted us to go with them to Panama. They waved their flag, they shouted, they made speeches, they cheered the fatherland, they cursed the Yankees, they said you would lead them to the Isthmus. Their little capitan, who rode on a burro and talked peon very much, said we belonged to them, and Colombia depended on us. It was very terrible. We thought they would never leave us.”

“Did you meet the Yankee, Don David, with them?” asked Herran.

“Don David? But—is he not with you?” they asked in return.

“I left him when we met those insane volunteers.”

“But, Senor General, they said that a young man—it must be Don David—went with you.”

“Ah, caramba! Then they know nothing?”

“That is all, Senor.”

“Then he is lost, that little fellow. He is not with me, he is not with those canaille—unless they hide him, or kill him. No one has seen him; he is lost—or dead.”

Having reached this decision, there was nothing further to do except march to Bogota and telegraph from there the news of David’s disappearance to his friends in Honda.